Canadian Werewolf in Washington
by BrashAmericanHero
Summary: An apparent contraction of the baseball-career-ruining yips is not the only dilemma Alfred has to worry about when his best friend begins acting strangely when bitten by a gray creature. He's almost certain his rival and new captain of his former team might be the culprit, but between insinuations of not making the cut and unfair tryouts under the new regime, no proof. -CanAme -AU


**Preface: **The following fan fiction is dedicated to my friend, Ellie, whose kinks I tried to interweave within for her birthday. That being said, I feel the need to caution readers now and clearly state that there** is **explicit content, however minimum it may be in the build up. I also must put a technical **non consensual **warning, though I attempted to do this as tastefully as possible.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia by any stretch of the imagination and must credit the original owner, Hidekaz Himaruya. I also do not own the picture used as the cover and will credit the artist as soon as I can find the original link once again.

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Collaborative clamors mingled inside the halls of Skinner High school, eventually perpetuating into the routine raucous Matthew always thought of as senseless jabber. Wending through the throngs of loitering students, he ignored the constant shouldering against classmates, barely brushing past the crowd to reach his locker.

Pinching the lock with a thumb and forefinger, he twisted the knob in accordance to his combination and snatched his necessary supplies once the door swung open. He paused in the fattening of his backpack to self-consciously glance at the mirror hanging on the wall of his locker.

His frumpy, one-size-too-large hooded pull over almost gave him a gaunt appearance, while stark white material contrasted with velvet cuffs and elastic waistband. Even in the warmer months, he hardly ever relinquished the article of clothing doubling as a sense of security. Aside from the comfort of familiarity, the hoodie was also the last piece of Canada he had taken with him, a maple leaf adorning each sleeve near the shoulders. Beneath the last physical shred of pride for his country was a modestly plain shirt; a pair of worn blue jeans and trainers completed the ensemble.

Passing a hand through his hair with a mental critique of requiring a trim soon, his finger looped around a gangly blond curl refusing to straighten out amongst the yielding strands curtaining his shoulders. He then pushed his wire framed glasses farther up the bridge of his nose, as if the action would make his appearance neater.

"Hey, Matty!"

Reverie instantly shattering, Matthew swerved towards the sound of a bubbly voice ferrying across incoherent babbles of students. A grin instantly graced his features once he saw the American lumbering towards him, though he leaned back, folding his arms instead of minding him, lips betraying his bliss.

"Hey," Alfred repeated, hunching over and resting clammy hands on supportive knees, panting from having sprinted a considerable distance.

Splotches of mud patterned dull, graying flared piped pants, cleats in a similar condition while socks were indistinguishable from their previous color and his belt was recklessly scuffed. Luckily, the baseball jersey that completed the uniform appeared to have been spared. Patriotic red and blue stripes backgrounded the blaring letters screaming, FREEDOM FIGHTERS, across the top. His tawny hair was matted, drenched in sweat and stuck to his forehead, except for one resilient strand always retaining a contrary stance amongst the short fold of hair cropped around his face.

Matthew watched the beads of perspiration trickle down his best friend's face, noticing how fabric tended to cling and reveal more when limbs were moist. And with that final thought, he slammed the locker door shut and slung his newly bloated backpack over his right shoulder.

"Hey, how's practice going?" He asked conversationally, deciding his favorite seasons were steadily becoming the ones Alfred played baseball in

Alfred looked up at the question, no longer breathing irregularly, though his cheeks were still a light pastel of pink. He straightened himself out before looking down the hall, gauging how many people were still lingering in their midst, despite the majority having already left.

Seeming satisfied as a couple more people left their vicinity, he finally spoke, "It's-It's been great, fantastic, really. As my dad would say, a jolly good show on my part!"

Unconvinced, Matthew merely raised a brow and took a step forward, motioning for the other to walk with him. When the underly enthusiastic athlete followed, but made no sign of answering his questioning look, he sighed.

"You're a terrible lier, Al, just tell me what's up," he insisted tentatively.

"Well, I kinda got the yips and if I don't step up my game, I'm gonna get benched," the forlorn blond confided, dragging his feet.

"Yips?"

"It's this thing that some baseball players get and it's ruined careers before!"

"Ah," Matthew nodded, not wanting to disappoint his crestfallen friend any further.

"But maybe you could help! Do you think-"

"Alfred, I'm no good with the kind of sticks you use," Matthew interjected, knowing his chances of denying the other was zilch.

"What was that? Do tell," Alfred said with a sideways grin, pursuing the shaky image in front of him, regretting his failure to return his glasses to their proper place on his face after practice.

"I used to play hockey, which I'm more inclined-" Realizing his companion had taken his statement perversely, the outsider quieted, not confident enough in that particular region to attempt a reply.

After a minute of silence, they both came to the exit and were met with the welcoming warmth of the sun reclining in the sky, beams lazily peeking through cracks in the clouds.

"So, do you wanna maybe do some homework together?" Alfred asked, clambering down the steps leading to the sidewalk.

"We're never going to have the same homework as long as you're going to that fancy prep school," Matthew returned reasonably, rolling his eyes and following in pursuit of the other, who was noticeably much more jubilant than he had been moments before. "Even if that wasn't the case, we're in different grade levels.

"Incidentally, why'd you come all the way inside the school to get me? And where's all your stuff? You know Arthur'll be riled if you come home empty handed and...Well, sweaty. He'll probably call you a filthy little heathen." He chuckled at the mild glare he received and began making his way down the street with a satisfyingly speedy gait.

Catching up to Matthew and pausing to release a disgruntled huff, the indignant Junior waved off the questions thrown at him by the Senior. "S'not really important," he responded evasively. "And that's besides the point! You promised to help me with French, ouí?"

The upperclassman shot a pointed glance towards the younger's empty hands. "Oú sont vos fournitures, mon protégé?" He shot back in perfect French, once again inquiring about school supplies and stopped in front of the other to force him into a halt. He raised a brow to emphasize his question, fully expecting an answer.

It was a basic phrase; Alfred completely understood him, recognizing the key words from the first chapter of his bulky French textbook. He stopped walking with the lankier blond looming over him and stared, feigning an expression of absolute confusion. One class he was not pretending to fail was theatre, a talent that came naturally after observing a plethora of English plays, courtesy of his father.

"Alfred, how do you not know the basics by now?" Matthew pressed with exasperation; nevertheless, the novice at the foreign language gleamed a fraction of a delighted smile before the expert turned and resumed walking.

Speeding up to match the faster pace, the reprimanded student began walking backwards in order to strategically showcase his pleading expression and steer the conversation in the direction he desired. "Matty, I need your help! You said it yourself, I go to a fancy prep school. If I don't get a high enough grade point average, they won't let me play on the team at all! Yips or not." He hung his head, as if his entire life was at the other's disposal.

Matthew almost gave an automatic, involuntary nod, ruefully gazing into gloomy oceanic eyes, the blues almost appearing wet and misty with threats of tears. "Alright, alright! But, where's all your stuff at? When we get to your house, your father's going to throw a fit if you come in fresh from practice! You know, he barely let's you play sports at all."

"Actually, can we crash at your place?" Alfred interjected, suddenly seeming an iota less confident.

"Eh, I'm not so sure that's a good idea, don't you need to take a shower and all that first? And even if you did take a shower at my place," Matthew gave the other a halfhearted stern look, knowing he was bound to ask, "My clothes will be tight on you."

Unconcerned with the problematic situation, Alfred hid his triumphant grin by facing forward once again. "Oh, I'm sure whatever you have is fine." He responded nonchalantly when a flitter of gray passed his peripheral vision. Stopping abruptly, he passed a hand through sticky strands of knotted twine passing as hair.

Similarly coming to a standstill beside his favorite American, Matthew watched him intently, imagining him wearing some of his own clothes. He was already mentally selecting the outfit the other was to wear, oblivious as to where the nervous fidgeter was staring.

There was a small park situated to their left: A swing with licorice cords and a peppermint seat left rocking at a disconcerting speed. Banana peel slides jutted out of grassy mounds, a giant ice cream tower sculpted from thrifty plastic sat completely deserted, a lone merry-go-round was left spinning, the rickety ticks agitating the frightened teen and splintering his thoughts.

The trees peppering the background of the childish desert themed recreational center seemed oddly ominous to the baseball player, apprehension causing his heart to beat faster.

"Matt, someone or something just passed those swings," Alfred pointed urgently, "Something gray!" Possibilities swarmed and deluged the horror movie enthusiast's mind, his imagination depicting an increasingly terrifying creature.

Finally noticing his usually loud-mouthed and exuberant companion was beginning to enter a pallid complexion and quiver, Matthew's face cracked with a slanted smirk and he snorted. The playground was far from sinister in his opinion and he contemplated exploiting the distraught blond's obvious fear.

Deciding he ought to not tease his upcoming guest too harshly until they reached the safety of his house, he placed his hands on broader shoulders, aiming to conduct him towards their correct course until he saw gray fringing his line of vision as well. Instinctively shoving Alfred away in a rush of adrenaline, he blocked the path of the giant fuzz of fur pelting towards the pair.

Alfred made a motion to sit up, unable to differentiate between the beast and swarm of colors around him, which began swirling with splotches of black, as if ink had been poured directly onto his diluted sight and mechanically brushed together on a painter's palette. His head felt even wetter after the direct, forced collision with cement. He heard a distant cry, too discombobulated to ascertain whether it was Matthew's or his own. An undeniable howl and the patterns of a racing trot added to the sound of his pulse and rush of blood resonating in throbbing ears.

The carnivorous wolf's eyes blared dangerously, casting off a glow more brilliant than the headlights of a car; and much like an animal caught in front of blinding illumination, Matthew froze. Flinching at the low rumble of a growl, the teen hastened to step backwards, gawking at the maroon coloration skirting the muzzle boasting stained teeth.

Twigs had latched onto the unruly, thick scruff of the canine's collar, chest fluff proudly making him appear dignified even as he bared teeth and snarled, saliva dripping and creating a glistening affect on fangs. Tossing his head towards the sky in a mocking motion, decisive paws padded towards Alfred, who laid motionless.

"Don't you dare go near him!" Matthew roared with newfound bravery, slipping off his backpack and flipping the top open to throw the first textbook his hands made contact with at the feral.

Whining loudly, the wolf crouched, pawing at his bloodied nose before he switched his attention towards his antagonizer and lunged.

In a last attempt to ward the wolf off, Matthew had thrown his backpack inaccurately and was easily toppled seconds later by the one hundred and thirty pounds crashing into him.

Just the collision with the ground was alarming to his nerve cells, which screeched while he tried to regain air, each breath carrying the unsavory waft of rotting death fuming from the wolf. Matthew thrashed and kicked until his forearm was clamped by those angled sharp teeth he had been eying.

Purple plum eyes swelled at the sharp fluctuation of pain, flooding redder than wine as tears prickled and strained them. Lolling his head backwards, heat consumed the fibers of his skin, devouring every strand of sensation in a succession of lashes. Despite the strenuous stinging, no noise left him, his limbs laid still as if he were unwired from the proper functions of his body.

Seeming satisfied, the canine released the Canadian and cantered into the park past the canopy of trees, tail swishing out of sight.

The inability to move continued plaguing the bitten adolescent for copious anguishing seconds; Matthew's innards boiling and stewing within their own juices. At the moment the youth sought the frigid hands of death, ah icier liquid sensation blitzed through each limb, extinguishing every notion he ever had of pain.

Jerking into a sitting position, Matthew lifted his bitten arm to examine the wound, stunned by the absence of the slightest of injuries. On the contrary, he felt rejuvenated, a fluctuation of bizarre, unprecedented confidence reigning over the concerns he would have normally held.

Sniffing, Matthew's nose scrunched, face contorting with disgust at the scent of fresh blood, the iron enriched atmosphere overwhelming his flaring nostrils. Under the first layer, he whiffed a comfortable supply of pheromones: perspiration derived from fear.

His face softened at the familiarity of the last caressing scent: Alfred, the perfumed fragrance of soap, dabs of sunscreen from an overbearing father and other amenities contrasting with the gritty nature of dirt and grass. He thought there was an underlining of charred crisps, perhaps failed attempts at cooking and confusing smells he couldn't yet distinguish with each one dueling for his recognition. The blood deserved precedence.

Bounding towards the fainter in a crawl, Matthew assessed the damage he had accidentally dealt, lifting Alfred's head to better examine him. The horrid smelling liquid was beginning to congeal around the cut; rounded globs continuing to trail onto the dusty, cool cement.

Gingerly laying the tarnished tawny crown on his thigh, he scrambled out of his hoodie and pressed the fabric against the bleeding in an attempt to aid the clotting. He had difficulty listening to the other's steady breathing with his own coming out in panicked gasps. He urgently scoured his surroundings for any witnesses or potential help; only cars zoomed by, the drivers too ensnared in their own lives to notice the teen cradling his best friend.

After precious squandered seconds of convincing himself he had simply imagined the whole encounter with the wolf since there was no evidence, Matthew slid an arm beneath Alfred's knees, the latter whipping around his neck. He heaved himself into a standing position, initially confounded by how light Alfred was. A loud buzz fractured his concentration and he jolted, nearly dropping the younger.

The vibration continued and he realized the rumble was the other's phone. Carefully settling down on the grass, he breathed before sneaking his hand in the athlete's front pocket and pulling out the device. He stared at the word, dad, deliberating over his options before answering.

A bombardment of worried, cooed questions were followed by harsh admonishments in a highly accented voice, the parent not waiting for any conformation that he was actually speaking to his son. Matthew rarely saw much interaction between the two, but he knew Arthur cared about Alfred immensely despite being strict.

After much trepidation, Matthew spoke. "Mr. Kirkland, sir, this is Matthew..." He tilted the receiver away from his ear at the next load of inquiries. Apparently Alfred was liable to text him with hourly updates, which was his original reasoning for purchasing the phone for him in the first place-

"Al's hurt!" Matthew blurted, voice trembling.

Answering each impertinent question, the teen unconsciously began running a free hand down the length of the body almost sodden with sticky, partially evaporated sweat.

He nearly gasped when the lapsed silence was punctured by the perturbed parent asking how the unfortunate event occurred.

There was no proof a wolf had ever been at the playground, or even the near vicinity. Without the presence of the mangy canine, Matthew's heroics became corrupted, an unnecessary, adrenaline infused shove. Knowing no average, sensible adult would believe his actual plight, he shakily alerted Arthur he would go into details once Alfred was safe and terminated the phone call. Staring down at the jersey stained with a red more powerful than the patriotic hue, a plausible fabrication filtered through his mind.

Catching the sight of a normally five-miles-under-the-speed-limit blue van become an alarming bolt rivaling electricity screech to a halt beside him only minutes later, he carried Alfred into the backseat, securely buckling him and attentively watching cautiously while he mentally polished his story. Attention rapt with rationalizations, he never saw the dank, weeping willow mossy eyes dart in Alfred's direction at increasing intervals.

The uptight Englishman had finally approved of Matthew after witnessing his character and impressive marks despite attending a low performing school. Matthew, himself, would never condescend to slacking or any degrading activity. He had put strenuous effort in creating a reputation and would not let one day's event obliterate his progress. He resigned to lying sparsely and not varying from the truth often.

The trip to the hospital revealed that both Arthur and Matthew's misgivings were unwarranted. Alfred had only sustained a minor concussion and excessive bleeding was not uncommon for head injuries. The Brit was not pacified by this information, however, and turned to the only known witness for explanation.

The legitimate perpetrator of trauma divulged, regrettably, how Alfred came to him empty handed and failed to concede the reason of lacking supplies. Matthew almost caught himself grinning, watching the shorter man in front of him willingly believe without any question of validity; his tongue sharpened, craving more of an effect, deceits becoming more embellished with every moment he saturated himself with previously unbeknown pride.

Continuing in an exasperated tone, he described his best friend's insistence of practicing baseball, tentatively adding, "before homework," in a reproachful tone. Arthur's approval only made the inexperienced lier paint a grander, heroic picture of himself while Alfred eventually became a mar of faults, who ran after a foul ball Matthew had thrown for him, only to trip on his own shoelaces.

After his spiel was complete, the Canadian was content to await Alfred's revival quietly, making himself appear busy by taking out a textbook from the backpack he had retrieved between the dash towards the car, and sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair. A bushy, coarse strand of gray laid on the surface, which he surreptitiously brushed off before reading a page from Psychology, focusing on clinical cases.

His eyelids began drooping after a couple of sentences, head following in pursuit and unsteadily lowering. He leaned back to avoid falling forward, allowing darkness to permeate his mind and drifted away, disconnecting from his body once again.

"No, that's not what happened!"

Matthew twitched, but preferred the thoughtless expanse of nothingness over the infuriated tone making his insides twinge with guilt.

"Stop looking at me like I'm insane! I know what I saw." The sharpness of Alfred's speech shredded the sleeper's last ties to unconsciousness and he stretched, idly opening his eyes.

A stern doctor, who looked entitled with the professional flowing white doctoral coat and stethoscope hanging around his neck like a prestigious scarf, shook his head. "Your son has gone through a traumatic experience, he's probably just confusing his dream with reality." He sympathized, talking about his patient as if he wasn't sitting in front of him, gaping.

"I'm not some nutter!" Matthew almost thought Arthur had spoken, but his lips were still pressed tightly together. Blindsided, he returned his attention to Alfred, whose voice had lapsed into an accent similar to his guardian in his fury.

"I was pushed down, I tell you! Matty-Well, he was trying to protect me from the gray thing! But, he did and it's thanks to him that-" Alfred lost track of his thought when he saw his savior had woken up.

"Hey, Matty! They're trying to sell me this cock and bull story and," he paused, a fluctuation of blood coloring his face when he realized he had allowed his accent to slip.

"I just told them the truth," Matthew answered coldly, irate with the prospect of his supposably best friend not sharing his secrets with him. "You didn't have your glasses, Al. And you've been watching an awful lot of horror movies lately."

"You can't be serious." Alfred was appalled; having not actually believed his father when he relayed the fiction Matthew had told him.

"Don't you remember? You asked if I could help you with French, ouí?" The Canadian was not sure what had made him overly aggressive, but watching the American's expression skew was awarding. "I kept asking where your school supplies were, but you were insistent on curing your case of the yips."

"Focal Dystonia?" interrupted the doctor before Alfred could offer a rebuttal. "That would explain your son's sudden clumsiness!" He grinned at his discovery and looked between the occupants of the room as if he sought praise.

"Why are you lying?" Alfred raved, eyes becoming a murky slop of deep blue and he blinked constantly.

"I think your son needs more examinations," stated the professional pompously, proffering his clipboard carrying a medical waiver.

Seizing the clipboard, Arthur examined the paper before shaking his head. "I have many doubts about my son, as any parent would, but if you're suggesting my son's mental, you can shove that forum right up your arse." He stated bluntly, shoving the thin slice of wood into the other's chest before grabbing his son's hand. "Can you walk?"

Alfred had not been expecting his father to vouch for him and nodded, looking up at the gentleman gratefully.

Matthew glowered, an unusual painful spike rippling through his stomach. He stood up unceremoniously and swiftly stalked out of the room with his backpack in hand, the cover unsnapped and flapping angrily with every stomp.

His animosity was not alleviated by the time he arrived home, snubbing his own father and alienating himself inside his cramped bedroom. He kept thinking of Alfred's expressions and replaying the day's event inside his head until he finally fell into a fitful slumber, his mind merely repeating the pattern of the passed day once again.

The sizzle of sausage and bacon tickled his ears, the alluring scent of pancakes and homemade syrup interrupting his repetitive dream of past events. He rolled towards the edge of the bed, cracking his eyes open as he dropped his feet towards the floor and sat up. Ridding his limbs of leftover sensations of sleep by stretching, he stood up, unlocked his door and strode into the kitchen.

"Good morning, Matthew!" The Frenchman wrapped in an ornate apron grinned, handing him a plate stacked with quality cuisine, battered with prowess ability and love.

Taking the plate wordlessly, the sulking teen muttered a thanks and sat on a stool, placing his breakfast on the counter. His father punctually cooked his favorite foods when he was in the rottenest of moods and his frown dissipated slightly at the outburst of fresh flavor stimulating his taste buds.

There were many discernible differences between Francis, Matthew's father and Arthur. Francis originated from France and spent most of his childhood in the country renowned for love before his parents relocated to Canada in the province of Quebec.

The man had light stubble and much like his son, lengthy blond hair flowing down his shoulders, a messy hairdo Arthur disapproved of. Another flaw the explicably English man saw was the style of both of their clothes, which were always casually comfortable rather than elegant or flamboyant in Francis' case. Alfred's father had always preferred being neatly trim and proper and shunned any ideas of indecently, despite his brows being incessantly thick and in a more dire need of trimming than either Matthew or Francis' hair combined.

"Alfred called last night while you were asleep," Francis announced, figuring his son's angst was somehow in alignment with Arthur's boy. "What happened yesterday?"

Matthew set his fork down, kneading his legs nervously. "What'd he say?"

Placing dirtied pans into the sink, the clanks almost masked the adult's sigh, "C'est la vie." He turned the faucet on, plugging the drain to fill the tub with soapy water before shutting the supply off and answering, "He said he wasn't mad at you and wanted me to ask if you'd please, please, pretty please with ice cream and cherries on top call him back."

"He's not mad?" Matthew asked, blinking with surprise and grinning, heartily stuffing food in his mouth with a glutinous zeal much more associated with his friend.

"Matthew," Francis scolded, turning around to face his son once more. "There's things worse than anger," he reminded him with a pointed glare, leaning against the counter while he spoke. "He wasn't mad, but he didn't exactly sound happy either. So I ask again, what happened?"

"Didn't Arthur tell you?" Matthew looked up at him, absentmindedly twirling the utensil in his hand.

"Well, yea, but that doesn't mean you're off the hook! You didn't even respond to me when I was talking to you yesterday." Francis informed, though his face already softened like the dull words he had intended to be impacting.

"I'm sorry papa," Matthew apologized, leaning forward to kiss a scratchy cheek and smiled fondly. "I'm going to get ready for the day. I know Al's got practice on Saturdays, but maybe I'll surprise him and watch his practice session. He might not even be playing today after what happened." He tried not to appear thrilled by the possibility of spending more time with the athlete at the expense of his favorite sport.

Hopping down and bolting towards the bathroom before any objections could be made, Matthew took a shower and dressed in a rush, not noticing the stains on his hoodie while he pulled the bloodied apparel over his head. He was about to grab his glasses, reeling his hand back after realizing his vision was absent of the typical unfocused fog cloaking his sight. He grinned at the mirror, which was entirely clouded by the breath of hot steam from his shower.

Sauntering towards the front door, he hastily slipped through, not wanting to alert his father of his leaving since a confrontation would only further limit time he was sanctioning to Alfred. Sprinting down the sidewalk in a prideful streak, he hollered rambunctiously for the pleasure of breaking the sound barrier, the noise becoming similar to a menacing howl as he continued to bound forward in sizable strides; canines returning the sentiment in his wake.

He quieted once he neared the baseball stadium, fingers roaming along the top of wired iron fencing. He caught the scent of Alfred clustered with anomalous deviates from what he considered the untainted smell of his.

Continuing along the path with rigid steps forward, he almost seethed with an indefensible sense of primal claims, blood trekking along his hand's trail as he tightened his grip along the pole streaked with alternating loose spikes of poorly welded metal. He paused once he could see an array of people clad in baseball gear and then Alfred, who was adversely clothed in his school uniform.

An excitement flourished within him, tension relenting before heightening once he recognized the taller boy with sleek platinum hair, nearing beige in coloration, held a superior stance in front of Alfred. His build was huskier, facial features broader, specifically his nose.

"There's no reason for us to fight any longer," the boy was saying, tossing a ball with signature red stitching from one hand to the other.

"There's no reason for him to be on the team anymore, either," a younger teenager from the group heckled. He pretended to trip, exaggerating a lack of motor skills before sincerely losing control to a hysterical fit of laughter, which many joined.

"I'm the one who petitioned to have a baseball team in the first place!" Alfred shouted with obvious outrage at the injustice. He resolutely kept his gaze free of the new captain of his team, which was soon to be renamed.

The newly declared captain held up a hand, demanding silence, the guffawing delinquents obeying immediately. "Jones, we've had our differences in the past-"

"Don't call me that! Don't you ever say that name," Alfred warned, gaining the interest of all the onlookers, especially Matthew's.

"Or what?" came the blunt retort. "You're not going to go through another identity crisis, are you, Jones? Kirkland is fine and all, but I'd much rather call you by your real name."

Matthew was not keen on accents, but he figured Alfred's rival was Russian from the sharp mispronunciations of words. He kept on the balls of his feet, prepared to intervene at any signs of physical confrontation, a sharp prick of jealousy gnawing at his conscious. The person opposing his desired mate was demonstrating knowledge he was not privy to. He dubiously glared at he two opponents, winding his fingers through the ovals of the gate, believing he was still unnoticed.

"Alfred Kirkland is my real name," the shorter boy replied steadily, though his body shook. He shoved his hands in the pocket of his purple plaited pants, rubbing his Converse against the dirt. His modern jacket resembling the ones worn by bombers during World War II billowed in the onset of wind, clashing with his tan vest, white undershirt and violet tie. His modification was against school policies; proof he had never been a strict stickler of rules.

"Nervous?" The burly Russian offered a rueful, wolffish smile. "You didn't see something gray again, did you?"

"Arthur promised he wouldn't tell anyone!"

"Nyet, it was not your guardian who told me."

Alfred stepped away from the leering male, fingering the black and white collar of his jacket, riddled with reverence.

"My father was your doctor!" supplied the boy who had taunted Alfred earlier helpfully, smiling smugly. "He told me all about your case of Focal Dystonia." His face screwed with guilt. "You shouldn't be out here," he continued seriously.

"Jones," the Russian started, wanting to regain Alfred's attention after watching signs of relief cross his demeanor, "Unless you get cleared by a medical professional, I cannot allow you to continue playing on this team."

"You can't do that! The doctor never officially tested me for that cruddy disease and I was just kidding when I said that!" Alfred argued, crossing his arms, nearly pouting petulantly. He could've stomped and thrown a tantrum or even tackle the other with the juvenile impulses immediately occurring to him.

The captain considered the argument, humming softly as he thought. "Do you want to try out?" He asked instead of answering, intentionally biding his time, almost chuckling at the other's expression.

"Yes," Alfred answered curtly, not looking at any of his former teammates.

"Fine, you may have one then. By the way, did anyone ask about your stuff?" There was undeniable rancor posed in his question, numerous years backing his obvious disliking and no one dared made a sound in recognition.

"I knew you took my stuff, Ivan!" Alfred roared and closed the gap between them, face construed spitefully, the emotion looking awkward on him, as if he was unaccustomed to such bitterness. "Fork them over!"

"Did you not want the chance to try out? Let's see some of that anger transferred into laps! Around the diamond," Ivan conducted airily, gesturing towards the field.

Conflicted with his intense, burning passion for baseball and his similar incense of loathing against Ivan, Alfred leaned towards his hatred a couple of times before ultimately walking towards the field.

"How many laps?"

"Since when did you do the bare minimum, Jones?"

"I told you," Alfred's gentle pools of sapphire froze over with unadulterated detestation, "Not to call me that!" He sped towards Ivan and swung a tightly clenched fist towards him, aiming to deliver a shiner.

Ivan parried past the last conceivable moment humanly possible, gripping the American's arm and twisting mercilessly before his quarry had a chance to register the pain. He caught a leg from the other's instinctive kick with his free hand and anticipating another punch, began twisting his foot to the point where the creaking of bone could be heard.

A whine escaped Alfred's tightly pressed lips as he fiercely tugged on his limbs for freedom, barely holding back a whimper.

Ivan released his captive suddenly, causing him to fall backwards. "Are you going to go cry to your overprotective father now or run those laps for me? I don't want you to stop until you can't run anymore, do make sure to tie your shoes though." He suggested snidely and turned away.

Alfred stared at his back, brows narrowing and eyes stinging with wetness. "Oh yes, my captain, my captain." He answered caustically, rubbing his arm and nearly sprang ankle disconcertedly. The feeling of defeat was unfamiliar and more bruising than his physical pain.

Matthew nearly stepped up to plate in Alfred's defense, but he was still unwilling to enter the compound, yearning for more information concerning "Alfred Jones" as opposed to the "Kirkland" he had always known.

"I want my stuff though," Alfred informed the winner sulkily, forcing himself to stand, not wanting to literally be looked down upon.

"I'll tell you where your stuff is at when you'll tell me why you hate who you are so much." Ivan answered, waving the other off, still facing his comrades, who were silenced by the escalating situation.

"I'm not shamed and I'm not asking." The undeterred junior replied, recovering from his defeat. "And you've got to be on some stuff, you've never been that much stronger than me. What is it, steroids?"

"Accept your defeats with more dignity, Jones," came the cold reply, Ivan continuing to relay supremacy by not sending his deadpanned expression towards the only defiance he ever faced, treating the other as inferior.

"If you want to be a part of my team, you're going to have to accept my authority and adhere to my commands," he continued, finally turning to fix the only person he thought of as nearly an equal with a denouncing stare.

Grimacing, Alfred disrespectfully scoffed and jerked his head in the opposite direction. "You're full of it! You don't even understand what being captain means. This is still a team and though you make final decisions, you can't just flaunt control like some kind of dictator!

"You were elected captain fair and square, but that doesn't mean you can treat us all like second rates! Or at least, I won't let you treat me like that, even if the others don't care." He looked at all his former underlings with disgust. "I don't even want to be a part of this team anymore, anyways! What is it now, the pack?

"Just give me my stuff and call me whatever you like behind my back because I'm not going to stand here and take it!" He yelled, shaking from agitation, itching to pummel the Russian.

"Fifty laps," Ivan said, seemingly unaffected by the emotional speech. Seeing Alfred had no intentions of complying, he walked towards him and grasped his shoulder. "I know you. Arthur didn't let you out of the house, you snuck over here on your own accord. If you want your new jersey to say fifty, that's how many you're going to have to do."

"I've changed my mind," Alfred snapped, trying to shoulder the other off.

"So, you're giving up?" The captain tightened his grip to a painful degree before making a show of ruffling the bold insubordinate's hair, spreading his scent to enrage an onlooker he had smelt earlier.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" Alfred demanded, futilely pushing his hands against the other's chest, not caring how his accent faltered.

"You never recovered after your adoption, did you? You were so young, it was really only to be expected that you'd pick up an accent." Ivan cooed with mock sympathy, scrunching hair between his finger tips.

"Fine, I'll do the laps. Just stop." Alfred relented, becoming stationary.

"Still a soft spot for you, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry you never got one."

"There's not much length around a baseball diamond, so do your laps around the park. Your stuff is in locker nineteen, the combination is forty-five, eighty-nine, forty-four.

"Don't disappoint. I won't work on your new knack of failing if you don't earn your spot on the team." Ivan dismissed him, returning his attention to the stunned members of the team.

Wordlessly, Alfred began his laps around the park and Matthew shifted into the shade of a tree baring sufficient cover to conceal himself. He flinched when the runner garbed in layers of clothes unfit for exercise passed him, but without glasses, he couldn't fathom being caught by someone with dulled sight.

The scent of Alfred nettled him, distinctly catching a layer of Ivan sheathing him, immediately despising the cloaking nature of the contamination. The new entail he received induced a spike of betrayal, not understanding why the orphan had not trusted him with such personal details.

Surveying his infatuation while the sun began to dip in the sky, casting darker shades along the field, he could hear every desperate pulse exuding from the determined blond. He had denuded to his white undershirt, tie hanging sloppily while he neared his last lap, fabric beginning to stick and natural pheromones masked scents that had rubbed onto him.

Matthew would have privately approved if the teen did not have the audacity to continue his pace unnecessarily. Anyone without any magnified senses besides the most common, would have been able to see the player was exhausted and even after the extra lap was completed, he did another one, pointedly. He could have shouted admonishments at Alfred for his idiocy, while contradicting himself and admiring the elaborate display of mutiny.

"Alfred, that's enough." Ivan finally noted after a couple of extra laps, watching as the rest of the pack filed through the gate and headed home, each already showered in the bathrooms reserved for athletes.

Nearly collapsing, Alfred locked his fingers through the nearest portion of wired gating and erected himself into a proper, dignified stance. The image he had wanted to conjure was ruined by his constant wheezing, which made the onlooker's lower appendage twitch.

"I always figured you'd be a good runner when you weren't trying to steal attention. You should call your father back, the constant buzzing was irritating me. He's worse than a clingy girlfriend." Ivan complained, tossing the cellphone towards Alfred.

Shakily holding a hand out to catch the fragile device, he grinned, knowing he was going to catch the object without floundering. The yips had just been an excuse for an unexplainable fluke, his physical abilities had always been impressive.

Matthew stepped closer to the gate, similarly in the same frame of mind, watching the screen of the cellphone brush against outstretched fingers before abruptly getting caught in a burst of wind and hitting the ground with the impact of gravity.

Crack.

Switching his gaze towards Ivan, his eyes widened, noticing his lips were still pursed as if he had just blown a gust of air. "I'm sorry; I thought you would be able to catch something from this distance. Pity. Guess we'll have to practice more, Jones." The leader jeered before walking away.

"You owe me a new phone, jerk!" Alfred shouted, bending down to collect his broken electronic and sprawled on freshly cut grass once his knees buckled, breathing raggedly.

Matthew climbed the iron fencing, swinging his feet above a course patch of fallen leaves before crashing into the soft landing, a soft crinkle coming from beneath his soles.

He paused when he saw Alfred stand, discouraged by the thought he had been heard, but the fatigued contender only grabbed his discarded clothing and made his way towards the bathrooms. Matthew followed, blinking at the sudden illumination of floodlights flickering on and slinked into the corridor leading to the stalls.

Peering around a corner, the spectator watched the defeated blond look down at the splintered screen of his device with hunched shoulders. His breathing had attained a normalcy and his pulse was following a healthy rhythm.

Matthew wanted to be the one to accelerate Alfred's consistent pump of life and regulate his breathing to a faster and needier degree. He continued to obsess over his prime objective, urges of spreading his own scent and officially stating claims obscuring the genuine devotion he felt for the junior he had become smitten with soon after their first meeting. He kept thinking of Ivan, who mussed his blond's hair and successfully got him to follow commands after mention of an adoption.

Regressing to instincts, he advanced towards the preoccupied student, snatching the tie precariously perched on his neck to bind the silky material around murky eyes. A dismayed, frightened gasp left his target, whose hands leapt to his face in an instant tug.

Matthew captured Alfred's wrists and slammed them against the adjacent wall.

Cracked.

The cellphone shattered into separate pieces with an echoing clatter.

"Let go!" Alfred demanded, attempting to wrench his pinned wrists free with avid zeal. Adrenaline was spreading throughout his system and his heart raced, each beat resonating in Matthew's ears.

"Ivan, if this is your sick idea of an initiation-" His voice inflicted with hatred and he lashed at his assailant with forceful kicks, which were only narrowly avoided.

The Canadian growled at the intensity in which the younger uttered the Russian's name and spread-eagled him against the cement tiles, knees forcing hip bones to cave as he pressed himself against the mystery never ceasing to boggle him.

He drove his teeth into a tender neck coated with evaporated sweat, dentures slightly sharpening while his eyes began to dilate into slits and lavender irises dissipated into globs of brilliant gold beaming brighter than the fluorescent lights of the cramped space.

Alfred whined, too valiant to let a sharper sound pass his stiff upper lip, though he began squirming under Matthew.

The animosity clenching the older teen's insides loosened it's grip at the noise and Matthew began licking his mark marring his devotion; a light dribble of blood falling onto his hoodie.

He moved his lips along a tender chin absent of the slightest signs of maturity and slunk to a completely revealed neck, listening to an exceptionally thick swallow before kissing the area. He felt limbs slide back and forth beneath him with renewed vigor and provocatively ground his crotch against the other.

Alfred's breath hitched. He guilefully switched tactics and wound his legs around his oppressor in an effort to pry him off. "Ivan, if you don't let me go this instant-"

Matthew glowered, livid at the reminder the male beneath him had withheld information when his accent lapsed into an unfamiliar one and the fact he had been mistaken again. He stepped back and released reddened wrists marked with indentions of nails and grabbed the feet clinging to his sides instead. He knocked off the trainers barely glued to him by loose laces and held him against the wall by the ankles.

He forced him farther up and trapped the disoriented dangler's arms beneath his shins when he attempted to pull the makeshift blindfold off again. Spreading the muscled legs farther apart, he held him by the thighs, kissing the pelvic bone leading to his groin before nipping him and traveling to his stomach, the undershirt beginning to slouch downwards. Deciding to assist the laws of physics, he lifted a foot and navigated the unnecessary clothing over the other's head.

"Ivan," Alfred purred, offering a throaty moan while bucking towards the hands elevating him. He exaggerated a swallow promiscuously, mustering every ounce of talent he had as an armature actor, thinking he might make an opportunity to escape.

"Nyet," Matthew snarled, any pretense of resolve instantaneously combusting while agitated flocks of carnivorous cells seemingly mutilated every nerve receptacle he had.

While his fixation was complacent instead of writhing and awaiting any signs of a means towards circumvention, the truculent teen freed one of his hands and unbuttoned his pants. The performer beneath him was tense by the time he pulled his zipper down.

"Who-?"

Matthew habitually heard the question on a daily basis, but only once from Alfred; he never had forgotten. The Canadian had just made the mistake of thinking his feelings were requited.

Not wanting to hear the whole inquiry from someone he pined for, he slid his pants down along with his boxers in one slick movement and rammed his cock inside Alfred's opened mouth. He clenched his chin tightly and went down his throat, straining his mouth open even farther.

Gagging, the junior quit acquiescing and thrashed, awkwardly flailing his limbs that were only partially free. Pulling his tongue back, which only momentarily stimulated his aggressor on accident, he refused to rouse him any further. He exerted the sinews of his jaw trying to bite him, immediately relaxing the attempt when he was merely repositioned farther up and angled for easier access.

He was breathing solely through his nostrils until his nose was pinched and began choking, barely feeling any tickle of air in his itching throat. Motions becoming feeble, another wave of complete darkness tethered with lightheadedness followed until he breathed against the hindrance to his airways.

He swallowed around the blockage, becoming crestfallen when more was shoved inside his mouth and whined, licking the tip and wiggling his nose to mime his exchange.

Obliging and excited by coercing him to submit, Matthew released his nose, refocusing his efforts in keeping the jaw open and reveled in the glow of having the notoriously insolent blond helpless to defy him. His breathing picked up just by the sparse, mandatory licks against his slit and up his shaft. He became erect after prolonged exposure in Alfred's mouth, teased by a yielding tongue.

Groaning, he thrusted forword, scrotum hitting lips and the sounds of gags and smacks becoming normal as he continued. Not sated by the mere licks, Alfred sucked accommodatingly after a guiding squeeze. Matthew awarded him by relinquishing his chin and instead winding his fingers through sticky locks of burnt amber.

He relished every forceful shove and sound of automatic complaint, abusing the younger until his lips went raw and were caked in blood, breathing despairingly, chest heaving against Matthew's.

Finally ejaculating, his one free hand clamped around the subordinate's jaw and he watched him swallow his cum, moaning at the pleasure of release and watching him struggle. He traced his throat with the outer rims of his fingers, jamming himself completely inside with every pump.

Relenting only after he was fully spent and every bit was taken by his possession, he unceremoniously freed his arms and thighs, stepping backwards and letting him hit the floor. He allotted him time to breathe, smirking since he knew what the cause of his difficulty was.

When he saw hands desperately sneak to the tie doubling as a blinder, he stepped on his arms, crouching over him and clicking his tongue rebukingly.

He chuckled when Alfred began opening his mouth for a rebuttal and took advantage of the availability of lips and pressed his own against them, delving his tongue inside and biting any time he met revolt until the kiss became willing. His hands swarmed the short crop of hair, toying with the resilient strand.

Becoming truly impassioned in the mashing of lips, he slid his legs farther down the length of the body he had considered much broader before conquering him entirely and snaked a hand inside the other's boxers. Alfred begrudgingly moaned against the lips tightly pressed against him, ideas of departure absconding.

"Je t'aime," Matthew declared his devotion in a small break for breath, momentarily forgetting why he had not spoken during the duration of his first sexual encounter, eyes returning to their regular hues. He felt Alfred harden beneath him.

"Je pense toujours á toi, Matthew." Alfred returned breathily, delirious and thinking he was still merely imagining his beloved in place of the stranger on top of him.

Blinking, Matthew reeled backwards, realizing his mistake, but the blond beneath him leaned foreword and passionately bestowed a novice kiss filled with loud moans and an inexperienced tongue. "Matthew," he urged, needing to hear him and know he was defiled by the teen constantly filtering his mind.

"Alfie," came the delayed return, Matthew adverting his eyes, becoming self conscious of what he had done. "You like Ivan, don't you?" He freed his voice of accusation, not conceiving for the second time why Alfred displayed no signs of antagonism.

"I hate him," Alfred replied simply and though he wasn't asked to expound, he continued, "I thought I would stand more of a chance of not getting taken complete advantage of if I..." He trailed off, abashed and tore the tie free from his eyes.

He simpered, massaging his neck and fingering the hickey adorning his nape until his eyes landed on the splotches of blood staining the Canadian's usual hoodie and his features distorted.

"What's happening to you, Matthew? You're...different. What really went down yesterday when I didn't have my glasses? It was a wolf, wasn't it? And...And he must've bitten you, right? It's the waxing gibbous, y'know and I've been doing some uh, research and you couldn't help yourself, right?

"It wasn't because you really wanted to force me to do anything, you were acting on instincts, weren't you? And it's so close to the full moon-" He began to babble and Matthew almost sighed at the normalcy of Alfred's supernatural tangents, except he recognized the rationalization process.

"I'm sorry Alfie, but there's no such things as werewolves, if that's what you're getting at." Matthew wanted to accept the brute of blame, he had no right to lead Alfred on any further.

"No, tell me the truth! A wolf bit you, didn't he?" It sounded like he was already thinking of a person rather than some random creature.

"Yes," Matthew answered halfheartedly, zipping his pants up and becoming amused when he saw a disapproving scowl.

"And his eyes were glowing, weren't they? Like actually emitting beams of light?" Alfred energetically continued his conspiracy that alleviated much of the blame from Matthew in preparation of adding to the reasons he loathed a certain captain

"Al, don't get your hopes up."

"Why won't you believe me for once? You're way stronger than you ought to be and I know you're not doing steroids!"

A silence added to the weight of the atmosphere.

"Well, you aren't, are you?" Alfred pressed.

"No, but that doesn't mean we should automatically rule out more sensible causes!"

"You're not wearing glasses either," Alfred noted perceptibly.

"Eh, I still don't think I'm a werewolf."

"Fine, then touch some silver!" Alfred dared challengingly, raising a brow.

"Why aren't you angry with me?" Matthew didn't want to ruin the playful mood his partner had lapsed into, but he had to know.

"It's not fair to judge you too harshly considering the circumstances...And isn't it obvious?"

"When did you start speaking French?" Matthew added, becoming more bewildered from lack of information.

"When I found out you speak it. My dad doesn't approve. He says the sounds of croaking frogs drive him bonkers." Alfred laughed a little, staring up at the other with adoration, licking a busted lip.

Frowning when he received no answer, the annoyed baseball player scooted towards the hockey enthusiast and cupped his chin. "I love you," he whispered before repeating the sentiment in French. "And you still never told me about that stick you prefer using."

Laughing at the ludicrously, Matthew returned the phrase, arching towards Alfred with intentions of continuing their sensual experience with the pleasure being mutual.

"That's gonna have to wait though. I don't want you transforming on me and you're teeth got awfully sharp earlier." Alfred held up a hand.

"You're such a nerd, Al." The Senior complained, rolling his eyes. "You've gotta be the only person on the planet in the past century who denied someone over a mythical legend."

"Matt, this is serious. It's almost a full moon and if you did this to me, I'm afraid for your enemies," Alfred lectured, having not forgotten the fright coursing through him just moments ago.

"I'm sorry, Alfred." Matthew apologized sincerely, shamed by his methods of forcing compliance.

The American nodded in recognition, the motion as insufficient as the words dealt. He was still bulging from realizing Matthew had been the one abusing him, but he felt wronged in the way his best friend pursued him.

"Seeing as you're a werewolf and all, can you carry me home? I'm kind of exhausted and dad's gonna skin me if I'm not home by the time he wakes up...If he ever went to bed, that is."

Matthew nodded, looking around at the strewn clothes. "Do you need to dress or maybe shower first?"

"I just wanna sleep," Alfred replied childishly, letting his eyelids sag to express himself further.

"Okay, go to sleep, then," Matthew answered, figuring the gesture was fairly simple. He cradled the younger, picking up Alfred's clothes as he walked toward the exit and slid the apparel under the other's head to facilitate a pillow.

The teen in his arms was slumbering quite soundly by the time he stepped into the spotlight outside, a breeze rustling his hair while he bounded down familiar streets leading to Alfred's house.

He couldn't address Arthur after being the cause of his son's unconsciousness for a second time and simply opened up the window left unlocked from an earlier escape. Clambering inside Alfred's room, he placed him on the bed gingerly, tucking him in. Neatly stacking the leftover clothes on his dresser, he took a mental snapshot of Alfred's sleeping figure before jumping out the window and shutting it behind him, returning to a home with an equally distressed parent.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Any type of constructive comments, reviews or critiques would be appreciated. I'm still contemplating whether I should ever attempt a follow-up to this story, I find this AU endearing, so I left this as uncompleted, though I think this could be a one-shot as well. I am still not the most experienced writer and will probably look into finding a beta-reader at some point. Thank you for taking the time to read my drivel if you came this far and I apologize in advance if I accidentally offended anyone with my writing.


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